The glow of the laptop screen reflected in Sania’s glasses as she scrolled through the comments on her favorite Ramadan support group. It was almost Maghrib, and the anticipation of breaking her fast had settled into a familiar rhythm. The chat was buzzing with messages from women across the world—some sharing their Iftar menus, others offering words of encouragement to those struggling with long fasts. Only an hour left, ladies! Stay strong! May Allah accept our fasts!” Sania smiled as she typed out a quick reply: “Ameen! What’s everyone having for iftar?” Within seconds, responses flooded in. “Pakoras and chaat, as always!”“Chicken biryani, can’t wait!”“Just some dates and water, keeping…

As Naila sat at her desk, fingers poised over the keyboard, she hesitated for a moment before continuing the sentence she had been typing. The golden hues of the evening sun filtered through her window, casting long shadows on the walls. It was nearly Maghrib, and the scent of frying pakoras wafted in from the kitchen. She checked the clock. Twenty minutes left. Her roommates, Zoya and Mariam, were in the living room, debating over whether they should have fruit chaat or just go straight for the samosas. “I think I’ll work on my blog for a little longer,” Naila muttered to herself. Ramadan was a time for devotion, yes,…

As Sania sat on the couch, staring at the clock, she let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Two minutes left,” her roommate Farah announced, dramatically clutching her stomach. Sania groaned. “Why does the last two minutes of the fast feel like two hours?” Their other roommate, Mehwish, who had been lying on the floor since Asr, opened one eye. “I swear, if we don’t break our fast on time, I might just evaporate.” Sania snorted. “You’re just lying there, not burning any energy. What’s evaporating?” Mehwish waved her hand weakly. “My will to live.” The three of them burst into laughter, the hunger momentarily forgotten as the familiar pre-iftar delirium…

As Mehwish carefully placed a bundle of canned goods and fresh fruit into a donation box, she felt a familiar warmth in her heart—the same warmth she had felt as a child when she watched her mother prepare food for those in need during Ramadan. Now living in Toronto, thousands of miles away from her childhood home in Lahore, she still held onto the lessons of generosity that had been ingrained in her from a young age. Her husband, Faisal, walked into the kitchen, glancing at the growing pile of donations. “You’re going all out this year,” he said with a smile. Mehwish dusted off her hands and nodded. “Ramadan…

As Sanam carefully folded the colorful paper in her hands, she smiled, remembering the Ramadan decorations of her childhood. The gold and green paper chains, the hand-drawn crescent moons, and the lovingly made Eid cards—each one was a small but meaningful part of their family’s Ramadan traditions. Now, in her quiet apartment in New York, far from the bustling streets of Karachi, she longed for those simple moments spent creating with her family. Her husband, Adeel, glanced over from the couch, amused by her deep focus. Making decorations again?” he asked, setting down his book. Sanam grinned. “Of course. Ramadan doesn’t feel the same without them.” The Crafting Rituals of…

As the evening breeze drifted through her apartment window, Sajal closed her eyes and let the familiar echoes of Ramadan wash over her. The soft hum of Qari Abdul Basit’s recitation, the rhythmic beats of Maher Zain’s “Ya Nabi Salam Alayka”, and the distant memories of her mother’s whispered duas all blended into a melody of nostalgia. Ramadan had always been an experience of the senses—the scent of iftar, the glow of lanterns, the touch of the prayer mat beneath her hands. But more than anything, it was the sounds that carried her back home. The Echoes of Childhood Ramadan Back in Lahore, her childhood Ramadans were filled with voices…